Cheers Darlin
by CeCeLa
Summary: "Cheers darlin', here's to you and your lover boy. You give me three cigarettes to smoke my tears away. And I lied; I should have kissed you when we were alone."


**I'm kind of like, 'neh' with the ending. But this has been sitting on my computer for like a month and I figured, why the hell not? I also thought about making it into a full story, which probably will be about 2 more chapters, but I don't know yet. For now, I'm leaving it as a one-shot until I make up my mind. Cheers and enjoy! **

**Disclaimers:**** I don't own Damien Rice's ****_Cheers Darlin'_****, though it was the only influence for this melancholy. Nor do I own Hetalia or any characters represented here save the bartender. **

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**_Cheers Darlin_**':

He lights up a cigarette with trembling hands and brings it to his chapped lips. Reaching in his pockets, he places the envelope on the rickety wooden table where he sits in the middle of the pub. The air stop smelling like the phantom of rose perfume for a moment and the nicotine breaks through his sense.

Inhaling sharply, he revels in the burning sensation that tickles his lungs, no doubt taking away years from his life. He closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the ceiling to blow a steady stream of smoke into the atmosphere. Everything changes nothing stays the same. Time passes without bias, waiting for no one man to do whatever he wishes.

Amelia hates it when he smokes and Arthur grunts at the thought. Whether he's doing it to soothe his nerves or to spite her is unclear, but he takes another long drag and slouches in his chair. The feeling is oddly comforting and for the first time tonight a smile pulls at his lips.

Everything changes; it's a cruel fact of the universe. Even she changed, though she would argue otherwise. It was he, she said. He was the problem. But from where Arthur sits, Amelia was the one who abandoned ship. He's got this friend that says it's drinking yourself senseless that makes it all look fresher in the morning. So Arthur grabs his liquor and drinks the remaining bit in one go. Then brings the cigarette back to his lips.

The mixture of tobacco and barley fills his mouth with a taste of coffee. Arthur hates the drink but it was Amelia's morning choice. And he always made sure she had the best. Bringing her coffee from where the sun shines even in winter. He knew it tasted like nothing else Amelia's had before. But she'd tell him again it tastes just like every other coffee he's brought. Because she's simple like that and not refined like him.

He clicks his tongue and rubs it along the roof of his mouth. Of course the despicable liquid would be on his palate now. On nights like these, she'd be waiting up for him, an empty cup of coffee sitting on the nightstand. When he crawled in bed, she would be angry with him because of the smell of smoke on his waistcoat. But then Arthur would say something to earn him a goodnight kiss. He only liked coffee when it came from her mouth, but he'll be damned if he ever tells her that. Warm lips laced with the nutty taste of that dark brew.

But not tonight, tonight those lips won't be home when he stumbles in drunk smelling like tar and ashes. Tonight, Arthur lights another cigarette and sings an old pirate's song that his father sang to him as a child. Tonight, he gets another round and loosens his tie. Tonight, Amelia will loosen someone else's tie, while he undoubtedly undo's the lacing of her dress. Smoke in, and then out. In and out.

Somewhere, someone toasts glasses together and Arthur cringes at the sound. His fingers find the silky white envelope on the table. It's heavy under his touch, though it's small in size. She went all out, as he expected nothing less from the American woman. Always so extravagant and over the top even when it came to something as simple as an invitation, but that was Amelia.

In her handwriting, his name is written as well as his current address, their old address. Arthur clamps the cigarette between his lips and picks up the envelope, examining it. The dim light of the pub darkens to material and for some reason it's humorous to him. Green eyes gleam with a hint of mischief, the liveliest they've been all day.

"I hope you went through with it, love" he mumbles to himself, then exhales the smoke on the flimsy piece of paper. Even as the words slip from his lips, he knows that they are fake. Arthur has no such hopes for her, for them two. No such positive thoughts for the woman who left him years ago for a Russian.

What possessed her to send him this? Did she think he would be happy for them? A bitter laugh emits from his throat and Arthur drinks. At one point, he did contemplate going, if only to make him feel. To make the hairs on his arms stand on end at the sight of them at the altar. A sick, masochistic thought on his part, but he has little reason to be joyous.

Tapping the paper with his pointer finger, Arthur smiles again, "She may not know it, but Colombian coffee is her favorite, old chap. But that's your problem now." His smile dissipates and with a flick of his wrist, he flings the thing on the table. It skids across before floating to the floor. He drinks to that.

Amelia Jones. Amelia Kirkland. Amelia Braginski, the name doesn't fit in Arthur's mind and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. But whether he likes it or not, that is her name as of 4:00 pm today. He runs a hand through messy hair and with his other, searches for another smoke. He digs frantically until his fingers clench a crumpled one in his breast pocket.

It kills him mostly, because Arthur knows that for all of his drinking and smoking, she will never feel his agony. This self-destruction is just what it is and Amelia is off on an island somewhere. Whether she's around or not, he couldn't tell her of his pain either way. He could never tell her anything with the intent to hurt her because he's just not designed to work like that. It kills him because it never mattered much then, because she always had him nonetheless. She still has him even as he searches for a light.

The pub is fairly empty, most likely filled with people like him. Arthur exhales, a bit relieved to know he's not alone, and leans over the table, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface. His left leg bobs up and down in tune. He tries to think. He tries to reason. He tries to be happy for her. Forfeit his happiness for hers, for Ivan's happiness? It is a thought worth laughing about, and Arthur does laugh.

Pressing fingers to his skull, ash falls from his slow burning cigarettes and he cradles his drink. He licks chapped lips, a chuckle still in his throat. Some might think that he'd gone mad, perhaps he had. Madness is a normal response in such cases, isn't it? Whether it is or isn't, Arthur could careless. He'd hit bottom a long time again, and madness is a step up from his present state. The best part of him got married to Ivan Braginski today.

Ivan. Ivan. Ivan, the name whispers to him teasingly, reminding him of where he failed. How Amelia claimed he failed her those two years ago. But it was lies, all lies. Because Amelia was the one who wanted to leave even after he pleaded. After he'd promised to give up smoking secretly behind her back. Francis called him foolish when he followed after her like some clingy child. But Arthur would have followed her to Hades and back if that were what it took to keep her.

He swirls his glass, the brown hued whiskey clouds his reflection. How many shots has he had already? Five? Six? "To hell with counting," Arthur's words slur at his point and he blinks at the haze in his head. His glass is empty once again and he grunts in utter displeasure.

Eyes slant towards the envelope that mocks him from his spot on the floor. Arthur reaches for it but has to grip the table to prevent from falling over. He takes hold of it. In the process his cigarette slips from between his fingers.

"Bloody hell," he swears, retrieves the soiled butt and tosses it in the ashtray next to its mates.

Turning it over and over again, he finally lifts open the flap on the back. The actual invitation is red, a white horse and carriage pressed into the center of the paper. Had she not left him, Arthur's name would have been signed in fancy script at the bottom. Had Amelia stayed, she would have known that he planned to wed her all along. But before Arthur could even get to that stage, Ivan showed up on his doorstep. Though he'd never met the man before, the Russian seemed rather familiar with his then girlfriend. And when she walked out of the door, bags in tow, Arthur watched. He was a gentleman after all; the last thing he was going to do was make a scene.

He called though. He called and pleaded and questioned. But she responded with vague answers. Accused him of not being there for her, and lacking support. Of being self-centered and narrow-minded and Arthur had never heard such utter rubbish in his life. Because had her eyes been on him instead of Ivan, Amelia would have seen his efforts to make things work.

Nothing stays the same, and somewhere along the line, she lost sight of them. Arthur reaches for a smoke, eyes still glued to the wedding invitation.

"Here," he looks up at the voice of a woman. Her accent is distinct, French, no, Dutch. She smells of rose, the scent is different, cheaper in comparison. Yet he has to think through momentary confusion. Because this woman's hair is blonde and short, despite her eyes being green, Arthur sees blue and it confuses him. But the woman is smiling; holding a cigarette, ready to be used, something Amelia would never do. Arthur inclines his head and takes it. She lights it for him with ease, then takes out her own, lights it and sits across from him.

They stay silent but Arthur watches her carefully. She's looking away from him towards the bar, her chin resting in her palm. She wears light make-up, to which he frowns. Amelia never needed such cover-ups. Her eyes slant his way and she smiles after puffing out smoke.

"What?" she starts in that horrid accent, "Where you preferring to be alone? You look somber enough."

Arthur grunts and taps the ashes from his cigarette, "If I say yes, will you leave?"

"No," she answers automatically, still with a smile. Then reaches over the table and taps the piece of paper in his hand, "I saw you throw this. I was wondering when you were going to open it. I started to pick it up and give it back to you. I'm Bella, by the way."

"Take it," he flings it in her direction, "It doesn't serve me any good, much like her presence, madam."

Bella hums in response, bringing the nicotine stick to her lips to pick up the forsaken invitation. For some reason this bugs Arthur to no end. She won't leave nor does his statement offend her the slightest bit.

They fall into silence while she reads, and he is limited on what he can do. To be reminded that the one person who kept him sane was now married to some Russian immigrant. Or to look at this pestering woman, both choices were unsettling. He chooses the latter and drums his fingers on the wooden surface.

This seems to catch Bella's attention as her green eyes, not quite as vibrant as Amelia's eyes, flicker towards his dancing fingers, "Are you nervous?"

He doesn't offer her an answer and she nods. He doesn't want her fake empathy or fake rose perfume and dull green eyes. He doesn't want her asking him question. He doesn't want her to know a thing about him. Instead, Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette and watches her.

"I know how you feel, Arthur," Bella says and pulls red-painted lips from the end of the butt to stub it out.

"No, you don't" he response curtly. "You don't know a damn thing. My life and your life have nothing in common except for this brief exchange, which you've initiated. So please, madam, spare me your stories."

"Do you want another?" she ignores his ranting, "The bartender says you've been here for awhile. He's been keeping a close eye on you. I think he might be fond of you."

Arthur snorts, "I don't care about his thoughts or what you think for that matter. What do want? Why are you here after I told you I wanted to be left alone?"

"To keep you company." She says bluntly and stands.

"If you're looking for a quick lay, I'm not interested." He answers honestly to which she turns to him. This time, a frown on her face.

"I said to keep you company, not to warm your bed tonight," then she winks at him, "Besides, grumpy Englishmen aren't really my type." Bella is gone before he has the opportunity to response.

Arthur is grateful for the silence once again. He contemplates leaving the bar, going to another and leaving Bella to her vices. But a quick search of his wallet reveals that he is low on funds and not nearly drunk enough to go home. Ranking a hand through tussled blond locks, he closes his eyes and exhales deeply.

Behind his lids he sees her smile. Hears her laughing, loud and carefree about the simplest things, so simple she was. Arthur tilts his head back, sliding down until it rests on the back of the chair, the Amelia of his daydream beckoning him to come closer. Her voice whispers in his ears and if he concentrates hard enough, Arthur could almost feel…

"You haven't passed out have you?" Bella's voce breaks through his reverie.

Peeling his eyes open, he glances over at the woman standing next to him. Her hand on his shoulder, "No, I haven't." he assures, pushing himself upright again.

"Good," she says, sitting four drinks on the table and sliding into her chair, "Cause I got us some shots and two glasses of your 'usual'."

She pushes his glass of whiskey toward him and Arthur reaches for it immediately. If only to get the image of Amelia out of his head, he drinks it all. Bella holds on to hers for a while, she is watching him now. Her eyes are curious though she asks nothing. Her nails tap the glass and she sits back and places it on the table.

"You said earlier," her gaze shifts to the side, "That we had nothing in common, our lives were completely different." Arthur says nothing and waits for to finish.

She purses her lips as if searching for words. When none were found, Bella searches her pockets and pulls out a cigarette. A quick look in his direction and she tosses him one as well. After lighting her own, Bella slides Arthur her lighter.

She inhales long and greedily and Arthur catches that she is trying to keep her other hand from fidgeting. It is enough to distract him from his own thoughts. He leans over the table, Bella's eyes widen a bit, and he pushes her drink a bit closer to the edge.

"Drink," he instructs, sitting back fully in his chair, "It will give something to do, if only for a moment."

A smirk grace her lips, but she grabs the drink as instructed, "Not so eager to get rid of me?" she teases and drinks.

He eyes the cigarette in his hand, twisting his wrist a bit as the smoke floats up. It isn't his usual brand, blander by comparison but it works. "When I asked if you would, you outright refused. Am I to assume you've changed your mind so quickly?"

Arthur spares her a bored glance and Bella blows her smoke in his direction then laughs. He tries not to get to caught up in it's cheery sound. She shifts in her chair, positioning herself sideways so one arm is bent, resting on the back of the chair and crosses her legs. "You're speech is so clear for a drunkard."

"I'm not in the mood for teases," he says plainly and she snorts and narrows her eye at him. They smoke in momentarily silence.

Bella speaks first, "Not drunk enough?" she inquires thoughtfully.

"Hardly," Arthur answers, now eyeing the two shot glasses before them.

She nods in understanding, holding the nicotine stick in her mouth; "My boyfriend left me today," it comes out with the smoke, "Says he's moving back to Spain because he found love with some Italian girl."

"Lucky for him," Arthur says, and enjoys the way her cheery expression contort and changes from sadness to mild anger.

"I thought you weren't in the mood for teases?" Bella asks and he finds himself smirking in amusement.

He puts out his smoke, "What made you assume I was teasing?"

Bella huffs, "Ass." And does the same to hers.

Arthur simply grabs their shot glasses, handing hers over, "Cheers?" he offers, holding up the glass.

"To what? Your brash humor?" her voice is playful again, "It's hardly something worth tossing over."

Arthur thinks it's over. He thinks of Amelia and of Ivan. He thinks of their wedding and how he had been invited. He thinks of the years lost between him and the one person he ever loved. He thinks of a lot that he should toss for, but only one thing seems fitting.

"To Russians and Italians," despite himself, his tone is not bitter, "That may have possibly saved our lives."

Bella furrows her brow for a moment. It didn't take long for her to get it and she hits her glass against his, "Cheers"

"Cheers, darling." Arthur says, and Bella tosses hers back first. Slamming the glass on the table while pinching her cheeks before swallowing. He does the same; the alcohol burns as it goes down. It burns like so many other things in his pathetic life now. There is something oddly ironic and comforting about him tossing over the wedding invitation Arthur so despises. But he does so with a smile. Because everything changes, nothing stays the same.

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_A/N: Again, let me know if you guys think it should be longer. This is my first Arthur and Bella fiction. I've never written Belgium before and, honestly, I don't really know her characteristics that well. However, I think I did okay. If she seems a bit OOC, forgive me, okay? We all make mistakes! lol_

_Cheers:_

_-CeCe ^-^_


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